Estate of Quetzalcoatl
by Engineer Jess
Summary: [Chapter 5 up] An archaic legend about a power beyond his own allures Voldemort... But the Order of the Phoenix is always a step ahead. Post-OOTP. Snape-Tonks.
1. Chapter 1

Author Notes: This story takes place right after HP and the Order of the Phoenix. Even though this scribble is a sequel to my older writing 'Even Old Morose Bats Can Get Soft', I hope it would work as an independent tale also. So if you haven't read/ don't bother to read the prequel, just assume that Snape and Tonks have a shy romance going on, and hop on. I will recapitulate some happenings in any case. At least the first chapter here retells a few details.

My apologies if someone has come up with the same idea; I don't want to copy anyone. It's just somewhat impossible to scan through all the 176586454654^1000 Potter fanfics crammed on the Internet. =/ And, this is pure fantasy, don't take it too seriously. It has nothing to do with the real world after all. 

Harry Potter © JK Rowling. _The Prose Edda_ and _Heimskringla_ were written by Snorri Sturlson. _The Kalevala_ was collected and composed by Elias Lönnrot. _Popol__ Vuh_ was transcribed and translated by Francisco Ximénez.

  
  


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**Estate of Quetzalcoatl**

The sand inside a large hourglass trickled sluggishly through its curvaceous mistress' waist. A few flickering orbs of candlelight had a contest with the crackling fire blustering in the slightly coved fireplace. A fragile-appearing teacup chinked, when a few long, ashen fingers lifted it lightly up, bringing the dish to touch its master's thin lips. Almost one could see the half-drunken Bergamot tea cringe in its delicate vessel as a pair of ominously large, thin nostrils abruptly flared above it. 

The poor tea, exposed to such blankly staring, black, hairy cavities as those were. And the gaping maw was equally threatening.

Nonetheless, perhaps it was a better fate to enter the rima oris, than be eternally left to squinch beneath that murky double-menace. Namely, after a bit of wandering in the digestive system's mazes, the tea would eventually reach its free heaven, the toilet. Ah, how serenely it could swim there with the other water molecules and make a few new pals out of miscellaneous chunks blessed with fragrant methane-odor.

The cup was finally set back onto its plate. The gnarled digits previously holding it fluttered away to flip a page of a newspaper their owner kept open on the oaken table. A black-and-white picture of Cornelius Fudge became now endangered to the hollow, atrocious stare of the nostrils of doom. Yet, it was not their fault that the portly short man in the image was fidgeting, bouncing on his heels, mouth twaddling mute gibberish so anxious that he appeared as though he had had thick fog covering half of his face. The answers for the Minister of Magic's behavior needed not to be searched from other galaxies. Already the cover of today's Daily Prophet screeched the bad news with Hagrid-sized letters.

_'**Second Mass Breakout from Azkaban:** Ministry of Magic informs that the Death Eaters that were arrested only a rough two weeks ago have escaped from the wizard prison Azkaban. These highly dangerous criminals include the twice convicted Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy whose services the Ministry highly valued before the shocking happenings at the time aforesaid..._'

Below, a line advised the impatient readers to turn to page three, unless they wanted to remain gazing at the large picture of a man in his forties blinking haughtily with his arrogant gray eyes, bearing an expression as though there had been a bucket full of dragondung under his nose. Of course the ministry's major ex-bootlicker, L. Malfoy, had received the place as the ultimate cover boy.

Inside, the sad story of Voldemort's new raise went on and on and on and on. More exhibitions of sullen desperados, the crisscrossing lines of text hooting and tooting about this beginning era of destruction. How the political forces were trying to organize themselves swifter than lightspeed, how the lack of Aurors caused minor brouhaha, how the Muggle population should be taken account... blahblahblah and gobbledygook-blibberblabber. And apparently nobody had seen a swishing cape's corner of the runaways. In one of those agitated pictures, a random ministry worker was gabbling how the Magical Law Enforcement had frantically started searching for any clues of the Death Eaters' current residences.

_Oh, so nobody knew... pitiful fools..._

The mouth under that violently curving, menacing facial protrusion that had caused such fright to the small teapool, curved into a sarcastic sneer, baring a badly washed, yellow eyetooth.

_Surely__ he knew... at least the semi-regular meeting places, if not the very exact hideouts of the convicted. Had not he seen those swaggering gray eyes only a few hours ago through slits in hood? The high-pitched cackle of the Dark Lord gloating in the background... Hmph. These pathetic pipsqueaks in the Ministry, first denying everything and now suffering from the consequences of their own stupidity._

_Surely__ he knew... and so did the Headmaster. And so did the Order, thanks to his brave work as a spy in this darker than dark game of Life, Universe, and Everything._

It would be appropriate to add also 'more perilous than perilous', and 'more hazardous than hazardous and even a tad more' to the latter definition. Or course, if one wants to be especially specific, the English vocabulary provides an extensive amount of adjectives to depict the sinister tides churning initially in the wizarding world. Also such less refined expressions as 'iffy', and 'ickier than Umbridge' suit lucidly well. In case you would like to manifest the happenings with yet more gregarious and bombastic words, you are recommended to contact William Shakespeare's ghost, address available in the Spirit Division of the Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London.

Severus Snape rolled the newspaper close, carelessly tossing it aside. It was a late morning of July, a random day plashing in the river of time. Even though it was the hottest point of summer, Slytherin's hemi-damp dungeons always retained the atmosphere of a combined cooler and catacomb. Hence the fire was welcome, added to the heavy cloaks and robes and miscellaneous spectacularly billowing batwear the Potions Master habitually wore. The man was finishing his late breakfast, still somewhat somnolent after the previous night's lack of sleep. A fake tufthunter of Voldy-Moldylocks as he was, Snape naturally had attended the major Death Eater soiree that had followed the fleeing of Malfoy and the other cronies. And afterwards, an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix had been called up. Even if fatigued, Severus had had his chance for uber-smug satisfaction, when he had cawed his dramatic report to the few who had been unslumberous enough to Apparate to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

_Ahh__, the glory...__ Even though fatal danger followed his every sweep, he was awed and important... unlike among the pathetic dunderheaded brats he had to teach here...   _  

Although the Professor frequently suffered from poor self-assurance, as usually misunderstood geniuses did, he was blatantly egoistic about the subjects he was brilliant at. And of course, it was the very seventh heaven to plash in the distinction afterwards, recall the shocked visages of Alastor, Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, who still wore hair rollers and fluffy bunnyslippers... 

_Although, there was the one figure he had missed... Perhaps the little one had not acquired Dumbledore's message..._

He momentarily forgot his semi-villainous gloating, as the awareness soared elsewhere. Feeling a tiny tickle at his midriff, Snape's mien softened to a very uncharacteristic smirk, a _gentle_ little simper. Whose odds to appear on that beetle-browed gruntphiz were just the same as Voldemort's Animagus form being a pink polka-dotted butterfly. Nevertheless, that unlikable expression dwelled more and more often on his gaunt, sunken features nowadays, thanks to his uncanny sentimental side that had evolved within the last few months. And now that his petite admired one responded to his feelings, appreciated him as he was, the slushy sloppiness had logically increased. Also, more and more frequently his unfathomable black eyes burned with an odd mellow glint. Nevertheless, he let his threatening, predominant Scowl™ fall aside only when extreme privacy was granted: either five hundred percent alone or with _her_.

After all, the outer world was supposed to see him as the almighty dark flintheart and ironmind, the sarcastic curl of lip being his only form of smiling. And this wee blossoming romance he had with the most unlikely klutz to clamber on the plains of England, was supposed to be kept as a secret. For the sake of Dumbledore's birdclub, and his venturesome part-time profession as a double-agent amongst the wannabe-Sauron's sidekicks.

His gaze wandered around the somewhat disorganized, spacey dungeon. Two walls were covered sensuously with glass jars, where different kinds of misshapen creatures swam in ickily flavescent fluids, either pickled or undead. One especially large Ladogan Lumpylob-Lumberfish goggled at the greasy-haired teacher with its prominently bulging eyes, involuntarily reminding the man of the kitten plates the former Headtoad Dolores Umbridge had kept in her office. Miscellaneous potionmaking paraphernalia lay here and there, some of them giving light ticking sounds, some oozing differently colored puffs of vapor. In one corner, his messy desk was overflowing with ancient leather-bound books, rags of parchment, one of the latter kinds scribbled so densely with cramped spiky writing that it was a mere wonder one could read it without a microscope. His pupils, used to the deep shadows draping the vaults, lingered a while upon that particular vellum.

_He ought to finish the letter... Perhaps she was already waiting for the answer... At least so she had written in her latest reply, that she wished to hear from him..._

The smirk curving his thin mouth widened perhaps a millimeter.

_She truly liked him... just like her honest eyes had so many times narrated... his sweet graceful nymph, her candor subtler than the strongest Veritaserum, her calm cordiality like the Draft of Peace..._

Of course, Severus did not really perceive how Tonks, behind his back, giggled at metaphors like this made of her. In his previous mail, the half-barbaric anti-Lothario had compared her beauty to at least twenty of diverse potions and whatever-neverheard-sludges. Nonetheless, she did like his eccentric ways of cajolery, thus having no words against the slightly mismatched allegories. And, the owl post had been their only coo-channel after the Auror had scampered home from St. Mungo's. By random reasons, they had not faced each other even at the classified poultry premises. In addition, during the Order sessions they would in any case need to toss aside the emotions and set up a major masquerade. Treat each other publicly with stiff formal coolness just like before the notorious kitchen clumsiness that gradually had lead to this mush-oozing loveydovey drama.

One itty bitty glitch existed in the pen-pal business. Snape's personal mail owl. Day by day it became surlier, apparently feeling that it was deeply insulted when obliged to transfer to and fro all those love letters dripping with honeyed sugar. Pigeons and pink doves were supposed to be the couriers of idiotic sap-scribbles, not this darkly proud bird. Till this day it had yet troubled itself to deliver the posts, but also the petulance had increased exponentially. Often it is stated that pets resemble their owners, and this case was not an exception. The black, constantly frowning owl of unknown breed, with a disproportionately large, hooked beak, had even considerable physical similarity to the Potions Master. Nonetheless, mostly the sameness was mental. In the Owlery, the animal always sat alone in the darkest and hindmost corner, sulking and scowling mutely at its fellow residents. A quiet morose loner it was, but extremely loyal to its owner, even though suffering from occasional mood swings.

*****

Severus' sentience glided back to the present day. The silence in the ancient castle was almost unreal these times, since the squealing tiddlers and miscellaneous superfrogs had been shooed out. Even the adult population had widely decreased, as most of the professors had tiptoed to spend their summer holidays elsewhere. Of course, always there were a few elisions: Hagrid could be seen pottering around the grounds, Trelawney occasionally drifted down from her psychedelic dimensions and could randomly be spotted trying to predict the _forthcoming _deathday of some ghost... Common fact was of course that specters should not be able to die_ twice_, but everything was possible when it came to the fraud Seer. 'Beware of the doom that looms beneath the moon, in the moor when a cow moos' had been her latest, foully rhymed advise to Sir Nicholas, whatever that was supposed to mean then. And for everyone's misery, Sibyll had become very proud of this new hyper-poetic prediction, and repeated it virtually to everyone she came across. Even the Giant Squid.

Other permanent Hogwarts lodgers included of course the batmaster himself. Approximately fifteen years Severus had lived in the Slytherin dungeons, almost never leaving his murky chambers for a longer period than a couple of days. And even the idea of him playing beachball on Hawaii, wearing a lei and a t-shirt bearing the label 'I ♥ Ohana', was so out-of-character that one should have been convicted to Azkaban for even picturing such mind-warping illusions. Thus it was very adequate to find his abnormally large nose glued to some complex potions recipe even in the deepest summertime. Indeed, he had recently made some extravagant success on the fields of this art. One dark and shadowy night -which is somewhat an unnecessary depiction since nights in the Great Britain are usually dark and shadowy due to the globe's inclination- Snape had, by a curious experiment with Polyjuice Potion and minced Ent bark, come across some intriguing results. It seemed that thus he was able to prolong considerably the drink's effect. The original gunk allowed the swigger to play chameleon only a pitiful hour, whereas this upgraded version's spell might last for days with the same dose. At the moment, this project was Severus' most mollycoddled cosset alongside with his aforementioned dream-cherub. 

Then there was McGonagall, who usually grabbed the harnesses of this stone colossus for the summertime and became the Deputy Headmistress. This year, however, the happenings had shaped themselves differently. Dumbledore had severely tossed all the holiday whoopee aside, and remained at Hogwarts to lead the Order and stealthily guard the Scarhead Wonderboy from baddy boo-boo Voldykins. And, it was definitely a high advantage that Albus was present. The ol' sly snakeface was vehemently plotting new schemes to increase his power. Something had to be badly clicking with his dark aura, if a single skinny teen boy was able to throw aside his most forceful curses. And as the self-proclaimed evil rulers cliché-like tend to chase all kinds of hoodoo bric-a-brac to boost their strength, Lord Thingy was no exception. The Philosopher's Stone had been flushed down the toilet, but always the abysses of this world concealed more objects of blazing power. Like small golden hoops that could rule other similar hoops... yet, if the holders were not strong enough with might, those attracting circular gadgets would -in the worst case- drain them into stinking schizoid lurkers talking in third person...

Nonetheless, the Dark Lord born from of J.K. Rowling's pen was not after Lord of the Rings merchandise. His evil red gaze had been targeted to a mystery from beyond a thousand years. A tangled saga almost utterly forgotten, and regarded just as firm as the thin film of ice autumn's first frost creates onto water's surface... However, he appeared to have his reasons to believe in the shady legend's accuracy. It was one of those classical tales involving a culture clash, robbery, and the fall of a grand city, all this mess revolving around a mega-magical thingamabob, forged by one of the most powerful sorcerers the archaic Indian cultures of Mexico ever had known. 

The lost estate of Quetzalcoatl alias Kukulcan... And that this inheritance might not be lost for forever, after all... 

*****

Snape finished ruminating the pumpkin pastry he had been absent-mindedly chewing the last half an hour. A faint knock coming from the office door had burst the bubble of drowsy stillness. 

TBC. Comments?


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Sorry about the chappy-delay, but the university is my evil overlord and forces me to toil with all these mountains of homework. But, thanks for the kind reviews, everyone!! ^_^ Ah, yes, someone asked whether this was about Aztecs... no, I'm playing with Mayans. Their mythology has a bit of similarity with the Aztecs, and Quetzalcoatl is known as 'Kukulcan' in that culture.

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Snape stood up, and slowly swept towards the office's door. Who the jumping Jupiter wanted to have a chitchat now? And why was the whole knock's aspect so slightly odd? It definitely was not the Headmaster fidgeting behind the wallhole's oaken lid: he always used the fireplace for express journeys to the castle's underbelly. Then again, McGonagall's knocking style was sharp and austere, whereas Filch usually pummeled the door so hard, that it was a mere wonder that the poor wooden object did not end to the Hospital Wing after every dose of such merciless violence. Yet, this noise... it was somehow rather shy, as though the individual beyond there had been insecure of whether to remain waiting for the answer or swoosh cowardly away.

Severus brushed some oily locks off from the way of his suspicious scowl. Today, on this lazy Sunday morning, his appearance was not likely to drive a pack of squealing fangirls to chase him. Where the Rasputin-ish black beard was not reigning over the facial landscapes, an undefined area density of stubble littered his jaws. The infamous well of grease stood lank, flopping unkempt onto his shoulders or collected into clods inside the high, starched collars of his uniform. The man was one of these psychology types that hardly ever paid attention to futile, secondary details of life, like teeth that had been unwashed for a week or underwear that had not been changed since Noah stepped in his ark. And the most introverted he became while remaining alone, as though crumpling inside a concrete cocoon and surrounding it with a bottomless moat. And nobody in this castle quite complained about his shabby hygiene, thus making the Potions Master even more oblivious of the infernal messiness. Nonetheless, by the time his hair would be dripping so much grease that the persons tottering behind him would slip to the oil pools, it finally ought to be time to bang the ABC of self-cleaning in that flint-hard scull.

The male glowered suspiciously at the heavy inside-opening exit, before wrenching it aside. _If it was that insufferable quack Trelawney with her oh-so-magnificent omens..._

_'The inner eye has spoken that if you do not immediately walk backwards through the Entrance Hall wearing a chicken suit, a pigeon shall poo on you 5 pm tomorrow...' _Cringing, he could hear Sibyll's ridiculously tragical voice ringing in his ears. And here would be no getaway at hand. In the corridors, an exemplary victim of lame prophecies always had two or more archways where he or she could soar if attacked by a random semi-fake Seer. But oh the woe, this dungeon was a perfect cul-de-sac...

"Yes?" Somewhat irked because of this nauseous prevision, Snape took a fairly sharp step over the threshold right after having yanked the gateway out of the way. He stopped dead with a small yelp, when feeling a rather forceful jolt against his torso.

"What in the name of Merlin...?" And as Severus looked down, his nose was to get drowned in a flyaway shrubbery of violently orange hair. A very disheveled-appearing Tonks was massaging her forehead inches from him. Apparently she had attempted to enter the office just the very instant he had proceeded with his jerky gait.

"Eh... Wotcher?" she gave a nervous smile when casting her regard up, "I-- um, ah, I wasn't sure if you were at home, but---"

Ta-dam. It was time for Snape's classical tonksyshock, the well-defined symptoms including the prominent facefall, the very usual tennis ball -sized lump in his throat, and abrupt breathiness, as though his lungs had been filled with molten Gorgonzola.

"Nynnynynnyn--- nynnnnynyy--- Nymphh-- m-m-m-- _Miss Nymphadora_? W-what are you doing here?" Severus' twitching jaw finally found the road of English. His wide-flown black eyes were boring into her: this feminine vista was something he never would have expected to find in the shady Slytherin vaults. The previous time the present day's Auror had resided here amongst the rippling shadows, had been eons ago, his very last memory concerning something about the ex-teen sitting a detention and scrubbing Oozyfishy's ectoplasm from a man-sized cauldron. 

An awkward silence fell upon them. Nearby, a lonely torch sizzled and crackled in its brass bracket, its light remaining insufficient to shoo away the shadowland's raven wraiths.

"I-- uhh-- I just came from Dumbledore's and though that--- umh, that I could pay a visit..." Nymphadora felt her shoulders cringing perhaps an inch under Snape's unfathomable goggle. Why did the dark, shadowy man seem somehow taller and more broad-chested, while stagnating there in the coved doorway? Or was the effect solely because his vast cloaks and capes and whatever-batwear blended almost perfectly in the murky environment, leaving only a sallow mug to float somewhere above her crown? No... there was something else. Severus was not hunching, but posing like a freshly sculpted effigy of an off-taking winged gargoyle. Though elegantly soaring, his usual mannerism was the stoop prowling that gave the slight impression of an attacking spider. Now, however, the straightening of back had brought him a handful of more inches height. And perhaps the girl had selected somewhat a shorter form to wear today, together with the peculiar color-bursting zigzaggy-patterned gown. Her mere existence in this gloomy, monochromatic dungeon was as though trying to cram a parrot in a coalmine: so out-of-place those quarreling, eye-aching reds hues were.

"Um-- or... is it a bad time?" her simper faded, "I just---"      

Snape was gradually recovering from the surprise. Chop-chop, his gaze raced back and forth the archway, as though trying to search for hidden spybots lurking in the ominous alcoves. If someone or something would see them this way, definitely more than just raising of eyebrows would follow... Nobody was supposed to be aware of their petite romance, the less the mighty iceberg Snape being so slushy over some goof-off lassie.

"N--no, no, come in, child." His clawlike hand took a firm hold of her upper arm, snatching her away from beneath the imaginary gawk of the nonexistent narks. The door banged tightly shut after the nervous woman. Briefly she had the weird mental image of this uncanny male being the gatekeeper of Hades, and that the gorgon was locking her in for forever in this sober underworld. But she shook the absurd conceptions away. Maybe a grumpy and sardonic oddball, but evil the Potions Master was not. 

The male himself was still going through some sort of self-clashing disbelief. _The little fledgling here, now?__ But, it was impossible... She, she was coming to visit him ON HER OWN...? _

Just then the old scarecrow caught a glimpse of his mug reflecting from a random glass jar that perched on the nearby shelf with its other slime-filled comrades. Where were all the molehills when he needed to vanish into one? That five-o'clock shadow and the shaggy mop of oily locks... not to mention that he was no smooth-cheeked bishie to begin with. He was probably looking in her vision just as pleasant as the pickled toad inside the reflecting dish: somehow the man became very conscious of his ugliness in her presence, hence making him willing not to appear as though he had been swimming a few days in the London sewers. 

Indeed, Severus Snape would have needed a special Howler every cockcrow to remind him that personal hygiene was not just a prissy ornamental accessory. Nonetheless, even though the first impression had doubtlessly been a mere disaster, perhaps the worst Armageddon could yet be avoided... Initially back against the Metamorphmagus, he haphazardly whipped his wand forth from the abyssal robe pockets. 

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!" A mumble, and a wand-tap against his chin made the unwanted facial fungus vanish, transforming the goatee and the mustache clean-cut. The filthy hair was a trickier dilemma. He solely gathered it behind his head with a piece of string his fingers had met in one of the pockets.

When the bat turned about, Tonks had severe trouble to suppress a snort-giggle even despite her shyness. The slapdash ponytail fit the man just as well as motor oil spiced raspberries. If he already did not appear like an evil cartoon overlord, this coiffure circus certainly crowned it all. It brought out his rather large and sharply pointed ears, furthermore exposing the whole gauntness of that long, thin countenance. Also the entire flash-quick currying was prone to cause involuntary titters. Her attendance was unquestionably causing very odd effects in him... yet, in a positive way.

The dungeon had somewhat changed from the golden schooldays of excessive cauldron-melting. Whereas light was as sparse as ever, the glass jars had multiplied exponentially, and a few random pieces of new furniture had been enslaved to carry foot-thick books and assorted potionmaking paraphernalia. And naturally the inhabitant himself had grown older... though, it was peculiar why the few lapsed years had had the effect of fifteen. Snape seemed far beyond his real age. Nevertheless... he was not alone with the premature aging. Lupin was already sporting graying hair, and Azkaban had emaciated Sirius to look like a middle-aged knave. Whatever was the Potions Master's biological reason for the sunken facial air, it had undeniably whipped him hard.

He took a sweep towards the girl, gaze still transfixed on her. Even though the blaring colors and the psychedelic figures of her garments were almost making his eyes water.    

"I... I never would have expected to see you here, precious Miss Nymphadora..."

She recoiled at the sound of the ludicrous forename. "Eh-- it's just _Tonks_. I don't know where my fool of a mother picked up that---"

Nonetheless, the professor looked almost offended. "I do not wish to call you so, child. Is _Nymphadora_ not the embodiment of your grace? I deduce your mother chose to call you well. Thus, why to desert something as fitting?"

Her cheeks flushed pinker than Umbridge's cardigan. _By Merlin's laundrybaskets, this bloke was blabbering even gaudier than his mile-long letters... And apparently the first one excluding her parents that actually LIKED that ridiculous thick taradiddle... _But it was not too hard to figure out why: the teacher seemed living on a wrong century anyways. So, how to take this...? The girl did not want to annoy the male, since she honestly enjoyed his company. 

"Uhh... eh--" she hacked, not quite believing that the following could ever plop out of her mouth, "Alright, but please leave the _Miss_ away. You know you don't need to be so formal with me, Severus." Still, even if the woman allowed him to address her that way, nothing would brainwash her to start worshiping that bizarre mismatch between Latin and Grecian magical creatures.

The sticky situation desperately needed some dissolvent. Both were merely stuttering, the conversation galloping nowhere. Yet, her petite yielding worked as an efficient resolvent, diluting away the stifling angst. A small smile arched his thin mouth, and a bony hand appeared on her shoulder, pushing the guest slightly onwards.

"There, you see my good point. Names often do tell about our traits or personalities, it ought to be..." And there the sentence died. What did _Severus Snape_ actually bring in mind, when pondered further? Nothing snug really, moreover reminded the thinker of some fiendish killjoy possibly obsessed with serpents. Yet, a quick change of topic repaired the slightly wrong-gone discussion. 

"Now... enter, please. I am most delighted to see you here, especially as I anticipated that you might be dear Professor Trelawney foreseeing that next week I shall be eaten by a pack of carnivorous Flobberworms... "

******

So, a few minutes later Snape and Tonks had set their hinterlands down, and a pot of steaming tea had been ordered from the kitchens. She sipped at it rather reluctantly, because the Headmaster had just fed several cups of the very same liquid to her. Normally it would have tasted great, but overdose is always an overdose. She found herself subconsciously thinking of how to get rid of the pesky beverage without him noticing it. Jardinières would have been ideal places to dump it in... but the likelihood to find those here were the same as spotting pink puppy plushies decorating his desk.   

Severus' eyes were to pop out of their sockets when the Auror summarized the purpose of her visit to Dumbledore's. Even though the Second War had officially begun, the old sage was seeking for a new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, and seemingly had regarded Tonks as an excellent candidate. Before the rattled bat perching beside her had a microsecond to whinny any objections, she went on, staring at the very repulsive-feeling goo oozing in the Slytherin-crested dish.

"But I don't think I'd fit... I mean, I'd probably just blow up the classroom or something. Not very safe for the students. I'm kind of a borderline Auror anyways--- ah, well, maybe not _that_ bad, but I seriously have trouble with some basic stuff-- That's what mum always keeps nagging about, that I'm so and so and so impractical..." Meanwhile, a subliminal whirr in her lobe wondered whether a veryveryveryvery silent and stealthy _Evanesco_ would demolish at least a third of the tea. "Well, I said no. Kind of regret it a bit of course, but oh well. I try to make it up for the Order." 

She gave an involuntary shudder. The air was very chilly down here, the slight humidity turning the coldness even more biting. The flimsy sleeveless summer-robe covering her small form quite did not work as a parka. What little good the teacup made, it at least warmed her hands. 

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TBC, I hopefully get to include some tacky syrup in the next chapter. Comments? 


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for the new reviews, and thanks for reading so far!! ^_^ Heh, maybe I used a tad too much cruel hyperbola with that 'underwear that had not been changed since Noah stepped in his ark' in the previous chapter. My apologizes, I was way too much in caffeine high. Just as now. Oops. :S Ah well, I'd assume that even magickened underpants rot in 4500 years, so it's generally impossible even in the wizarding world. XD Anyhoo, here's a little something more. 

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The delicate shade of green, that had tinted Snape's sunken cheeks since the ooh-so-shocking revelation of Dumbledore's suggestion, lingered for a while. Even after fourteen years, it was extremely hard for Severus to accept the fact that the Headmaster let the man's requests of applying the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching post to flutter through his scull as if his ears had been connected together with a straight hollow pipe. And that this year he would traditionally have to swallow the fish liver oil -tasting disappointment, as Albus once again sought the applicant outside of his close-knitted horde of Hogwarts henchmen. Nonetheless... it was mayhap foolish to complain, considering that not every by-passer gave former Voldy-fanclubbers second chances. With his unrelenting attitude, Dumbledore kept the Slytherin Head of House as far away as possible from the Dark Arts. No evil paintbrushing for the bat.

At the moment, Severus had to admit that a minor jealousy kept croaking in his mind, as goggling at that mere kid. _What superior talent did she possess that made her a better Dadaist than he was?_ _Or, in what way had that wretched Lupin or that insufferable glittering peacock braggadocio Lockhart performed more powerful acts  than he, the mighty master of-- _But here, the voice of reason took the harnesses. Was he going to remain surly to Nymphadora just because she had been offered the post? After all, she _had_ said no... And when deliberated further with rationality, was not her refusal in a way _his_ setback? She would have resided near him, even though they had been obliged to go on with the hey-you-are-my-tomnoddy-ex-student-so-let-us-scowl-and-glare -masquerade. But now, that hope was gone...

Still, a certain undertone of envy remained to whirr in his subconscious, even though he pushed all the major grudge aside. Love had softened him somewhat, but had not scrubbed off the basic character flaws. Nonetheless, nothing deadly crucial prevailed against Tonks: after all, he cherished the chaffinch, and the mere gawking at her features made ants invade his stomach. Hence, the toxic-green rouge on his phiz was washed away.

Snape's brow shot lightly up, when he finally noticed her minor trembling. "Are you... feeling cold?"

She gave a nod. "I... uh... didn't remember it's _this_ frosty down here--"

He grabbed the almost full teapot, and moved closer to the girl. They were sitting about in the furthest nook of the dungeon, on a couch that appeared as though it had been borrowed from some b-class horror film, with carved ram-heads in the armrests, and the backrest looking moreover like a giant spine with long, slightly curved ribs protruding out of it. This monstrosity had been here ever since Snape had moved in, and who knew how long before that. He had tried removing the churlish tchotchke several times, but it seemed either to be attached to the floor with superglue, or with some counterjinxless sticking charm. So after a decennium of snarling and frowning at it, he had finally accepted the oddity to be his pal and started using it as a real seat.

"Here, have some more of this tea, it shall warm you up. And we can order more from the kitchens--" 

It was a mere wonder that the Auror had not already transformed into an organic fountain with tea gushing out of her ears: so chockfull she was of it. She stared at the pot, attempting in vain to hide the nausea. "Eh-- ah-- I..."

But luckily the male was watching elsewhere. "Indeed... perchance it is somewhat on the cooler side..." As though trying to be a fancy bio-thermometer, his hand fiddled the air. A flick of wand, and the embers in the fireplace flared up. Tonks mutely sighed with ease, as the man absently lowered the infernal liquid's vessel back onto the table. 

"You ought to have--"

His blibberblabber ceased. Sitting closer now, her existence was somehow more real, solider. Snape had kept gawking at her the instant she had been about to step in, but still his jaw remained to droop open. Despite the deluge of colors, she was very attractive in his eyes. Something utterly out of this somber, lightless underworld... Severus hardly noticed how his digits rose up to brush lightly her upper arm... soon slowly crawling upwards to adore that soft, round shoulder just a tad above. Weird, how the Defense Against the Dark Arts job-obsession suddenly began feeling just as insignificant as bullfrog's croaks, when his hand could enjoy this heavenly softness... 

That stroke was enough to make her twitch. Compared to the Glacial Epoch reigning in the room, his usually so cold fingers felt considerably warm. But more than that, the fact that Snape actually was capable of giving such a gentle touch, was the most mind-boggling. Recently, she had put a fair amount of thought onto exploring his complex and contradictory nature. The image he gave to the outer world was the egoistic and cynical bucket of sulk. Yet, the insides were entirely another dimension, starting on from the poor self-confidence, the constant second-guessing, and that he actually deeply respected certain people. Never could he be spotted acting rudely or inconsiderate towards Dumbledore or McGonagall ...and now, this unexpected behavior towards her. But then again, among other things, Nymphadora furthermore could not comprehend the animosity between the deceased Sirius and this self-conflicting chap. Snape was such a walking Department of Mysteries. But those enigma-bound features had rather much begun intriguing her. What actually lurked beneath...?   

In the jittery state as she was still, coy in this dark and tall man's presence, the petty token of affection indeed had more influence. And oh the anti-perks of being such a klutz. Her hands were suddenly shaking so much, that they no longer could firmly hold the heating element called teacup. With a splash, the dish keeled over, the lukewarm beverage getting splattered all over Snape's robes.

Horrified, her wide-flown eyes resembling two dinner plates, she slapped a hand over her mouth. "Eeh-- I--I-- Merlin's beard, I'm so sorry, uh-- let me fix that--" In mere panic, Tonks fumbled her belt to find her wand, gibbering, "I'm so sorry, p-please don't be mad at me, it was just your touch that---"

Nonetheless, for the Potions Master, this embarrassing goof-up appeared to be something very secondary, and he had dehumidified the garments with an express flick of wand while she still scrabbled hers as if her fingers had been in an overhand knot. Something in her agitated yelp had ignited a dark, gleaming burn in his pupils.

"_What about my touch_?" the man croaked huskily, his wiry black figure towering over hers, the sepulchral dungeon's shadows dancing around him.

The Metamorphmagus flushed into a deep shade of magenta. "I-- eeh-- t-the way you just-" And ever breathless she became, as the same skeletal digits rose up to slide along her jowl. Still, they were almost as irresolute as their target of admiration, brooding whether they were worthy to skim that fair, silky arc; scarred, hardened, and yellow-nailed as they were themselves...

"The way I _what_?" the hoarse drawl went on. A thumb appeared to fondle her lower lip, opening her small mouth just a centimeter. His burning eyes drew closer.

Her words were drained. Breathing as though all the oxygen molecules had been annihilated from the room, Tonks involuntarily retreated an inch towards the backrest. Yet, there already lurked one sinewy arm, which welcomed her slender body into its traditional, mousetrap-like hold. Still a few weeks ago, he would have believed such vellications and wormings to indicate that the poor victim of his clumsy cherishing was going to throw up. Nevertheless, he was now far more able to see through those puny feminine oddities, not any more confusing shy pleasure to something that Gred and Forge's Skiving Snackboxes would cause. On the very contrary, he now became only more encouraged to snatch her nearer and glue her lithe form against his age-strengthened thorax.

_She liked his caresses... a mere miracle, such a blooming fair maiden in the arms of this old ugly man..._

Severus could not comprehend how the following mega-cliché plaguing all the sappy lovebudgie tales ever scribbled could slither out of his maw. Probably he would bang his greasy head against the dungeon wall a few hours afterwards, punishing himself for becoming such an epitome of soap opera. But it had to be said.

"I indeed have missed you, sweet Nymphadora..."

If Snape's owl had seen his master now, it would have doubtlessly fainted with horror. And refused ever to deliver any letters, not even Howlers that contained in-sealed long-distance Cruciatus curses.

Next, the girl found herself arrested between his broad chest and the sofa's backrest, his lips fondling hers with slow, ever-deepening kisses. Tonks had not yet completely gotten used to that massive sharp-pointed beak-like protuberance -id est, his excessive nose- being squashed against the side of her face, and she still had the slight fear that it might accidentally poke an eye out. But apparently Severus mastered the behavior of this facial mountain, and Tonks would not be obliged to wear goggles while snogging. Another petty cause for alarm were his peculiar teeth. Especially the unnaturally long cuspids that only increased the uncanny vampireness his whole looks transpired. But ostensibly the whole fear of suddenly becoming a Dracula Chick walked with straw legs. This bloke was no nosferatu, but would have just needed good braces, some solarium, and a more cheerful wardrobe.  

Plus the swirling, divinely halcyon emotion the sudden doveshow brought along, it also solved a binary dilemma. The tea threat's dark shadow no longer loomed ominously in the horizon, neither she felt like a popsicle. Just like she had learned at St. Mungo's: the batwing's shelter was always a mellow place. So out-of-breath Nymphadora was in his enfold, heart pounding with overspeed... The man slipped a few fingers down to caress her soft neck, recalling that she enjoyed it almost just as much as the kisses on her mouth... especially if his digits brushed over a sorer spot.

_Or__... what if he would let his lips caress her beautiful, white neck, would she like that even more...? But no, he was being horribly inconsiderate. She would probably grant him a cuff on the ear for even fantasizing about such a thing..._

Alike formerly deduced, Snape was not mentally living on the present century. Forget lederhosen, latex, and 'private lessons' to silicone-stuffed Gryffindor Mary Sues. For him, it was already beyond seventh heaven solely to _hold_ his beloved this way.  

Fleetingly, Tonks could not hinder a few mossy memories from crawling up from the pits of mind. Perhaps all these contradictions embedded in this weird situation were prone to summon up such things... Severus Snape, the one who had always shot the worst and most hurting offences about her potionmaking blunders, now declaring his love and saving nymphs from iffy distresses... The girl fairly well could picture his younger, yet anger-deformed visage spitting insults at her pre-teen self, who almost tears in her eyes stared at a cauldron, whose insides had, by some incomprehensible flub, mutated into tap-dancing bunny slippers.

"_I assume I ought to make you drink some Skele-Gro, so that you would achieve a proper scull instead of that one that simply seems to be too soft to hold any brain inside itself... When I request to observe the instructions, you use these round things called eyes to read every quarter of a letter I have written. Or are you such a dimwitted puny brat that--- "_

"My sweet little child..." a silent breath at her ear broke the memento. With such a perfect clash in those few words, that nothing but mute perplexity remained to lodge in her lobe.

So tightly pinned against Snape's torso the girl had been, that only now she was able to free one arm from that stormy hold. Intention was to slip it around the man's neck, but as there was very little space in the gentle prison amidst the backrest, the left armrest, and him, her elbow accidentally hit rather hard one of the wooden ram-head decorations that littered the couch. 

And oddly enough, due to the jolt, it seemed caving in...

The snoggers startled to a sudden low rumble, which evidently came from the stonewall behind the ugly piece of furniture. Flabbergasted, they remained to stare at the roughly cut bricks. Were they suffering from a mutual hallucination, or were those stones actually stirring? 

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To be continued... Comments?


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks for the new reviews and everything, always a pleasure to read feedback. ^_^ Well, on with the story...

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Either Tonks' elbow had triggered some sort of secret mechanism, or then the sinister sofa simply had wanted to draw the snoggers' attention away from the sap that was so horridly infesting the poor piece of furniture. Nonetheless, the first option seemed more likely. The instant the couple had been affirmed that they were not hallucinating, they had sprung up from the couch as though they had sat on a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Behind it, it seemed that an invisible hand was picking bricks one by one from the wall, and letting the thin air swallow them right after. 

Gradually the low rumble turned extinct as more and more stones vanished, and ultimately everything stood sepulchrally silent. Wands out, Snape and Tonks gawked at the man-sized, yet narrow aperture whose black shape had been formed in the mure. Reedy and roughhewn, it gaped back. Slowly they lowered the wizardous weapons, since no hairy mutant monsters were rampaging out of it. 

"I... ehm... Blimey, I don't know what I did, my arm just hit something, and-- uh, I hope I didn't mess up anything important... or is it supposed to do so?" she piffled antsy, mentally moaning at her incomprehensible clumsiness. Usually she was much more casual about her flaws, but today's soup began being way too thick. After sprinkling his robes, was she now guilty of carving random ugly holes in his walls like some giant badger in mushroom high? Perhaps not. Beside her, the man appeared just as baffled because of this new mural ornament.

A sharp scowl was lit under Snape's thick black brows. Stroking his goatee with a long index, he kept evaluating the gap and the sofa. "I indeed wish I had even the slightest idea of what this is about..." He bent down to scrutinize the spot in the armrest that the girl had smashed, "This castle is ancient, and conceals an unknown quantity of secrets inside itself... I daresay your sweet ickle elbow just found one." The ram-head had caved in, and sat now deeper than its fellow decorations, like a button being pushed down. "I do only wonder what it has to do with this wretched junk that dares to call itself a couch... and I highly doubt it has been here ever since old Meister Slytherin had these dungeons built. This cannot be but two or three centuries old at most..." 

Nymphadora could almost hear the pinions rolling under his greasy hair, so fast flied his reasoning. 

"Hence... I ought to infer that whoever -undoubtedly a former inhabitant of these very rooms- owned this piece of furniture, is also responsible of the phenomenon in question. A secret door, mayhap... had this been located in the public corridors, it most possibly would have been discovered by pint-sized delinquents eons ago... if it indeed is an entrance... into a place unknown... Hmm... Curious..."

Head atilt, Nymphadora leered at the hole. "You... think we should check out what it is?" She took a step to go round the ram-plagued doodah, in order to enter the narrow pass that separated it from the wall beyond, but a hand closed tight over her upper arm with a pincer-like grip, stopping her.

"Careful." She met Snape's beetle-black frown. "Keep in mind where we are. When you face something peculiar here in the Slytherin premises, always assure that it has no jinxes in store for you." His lip curled. "Dear old Gryffindor may await you with milk and cookies, and a few hugs added into the bargain, but here anything may bite your nose off or turn you into a kumquat... Never let the innocent cover fool you. Whence do you think the darkness that binds even these tides has originated? We stand in the cradle and tomb of many Dark Wizards, who in the deep waters of time have hatched schemes of utter malice, and henceforth we shall derive---"

Tonks had to choke down another hysterical fit of giggles that was about to squirt out of her mouth. All that ridiculously solemn pomp and drawl; the situation was missing only the creepy organ music playing in the background. Involuntarily Snape made himself rather comical with all that superfluous melodrama. And yet, somehow fraternal, like a big brother halting his little sister from running in front of a speeding steamroller. He obviously was very defensive towards the few persons he cared about, which she had already experienced more than once. Nonetheless, at the moment this protectiveness felt somewhat out-of-place, as though he had absent-mindedly subtracted ten years from her proper age. And how was it after all... Tonks furthermore had not perfectly adapted to the fact that he kept calling her 'child'. Yet, apparently it was just a diminutive pet name, with no deeper significance.

She patted his forearm jovially, her dark eyes twinkling, "Severus, don't forget that I'm an Auror. Though I'm dead clumsy, it's not like that I'd be walking blindfolded and smashing myself against every single wall. I can perfectly see there might be something iffy waiting. Otherwise I'd keep my wand in my belt."

"Hrhm." Snape's visage had the air of an unripe lemon for a second. The DADA scandal still ticked somewhere in his subconscious, pushing him unwillingly to act as though he possessed the supreme knowledge of the whole universe. But just like she had swallowed the guffaws, he suppressed the slight grudge. After all, nobody would have smiled him that way even once in a terabillion years, nor fondled his suffering arm. It burned and seared nowadays way too often, as Monsieur V. kept so frantically summoning his lackeys. Thus, such a soothing stroke was perhaps more valuable than the whole inners of Gringotts. Especially now that he had used to her touches and was not struck by an inner Petrificus Totalus every time it happened.

Nonetheless, the Potions Master was not totally wrong with his warning. Extremely good as his scotopic vision was, he spotted something about the aperture Nymphadora had evidently missed.

"Indeed... Nevertheless, perhaps I still ought to inform you not to rush right into _that_..." And truly, squinting, she could see that the air was very feebly vibrating just before the gap, a weak purple tint in it. Indicating that a spell of an unknown nature was protecting the doorway. 

"Think we should call Mr. Dumbledore? Or let it just be? Of course I can leave, if--" Tonks' tone was far more concerned now.

"No... I fathom we can handle this without the Headmaster. I am curious to see what this is about. And frankly..." he cast his darkening pupils down at her, "...I... I would not wish you to leave, not just yet... It has been a while... Letters are letters, they cannot hold the very essence of reality, of what you truly are..." his fingers twiddled a second her soft bare shoulder, which obviously was their novel idol. "But of course, if you wish to go, I cannot hinder you..."

"No, no, I didn't mean--"

Again the awkward silence. With four nervous eyes leering at one another in the hemi-darkness.

"Merlin's mittens, let's just see what the bloomin' heck this thing is", the girl snorted after enough mute angst drama, "Got any ideas of how to probe that force field thing?"

A smug curl of lip twisted his gaunt countenance. Ah, the perfect opportunity to show his extravagant talent! The neglected genius of the Dark Arts and their counterjinxes... He struck a dramatic pose, whisked his wand as though it had been a stiff whip, and cried hoarsely, "_Ich__ habe die Zauberkraft, zeigen Sie dann auch Ihre Macht!_"

A jet of blindingly yellow light burst out of the wandtip, the hex' grand surging magic making his voluminous robes billow out strikingly for a second, and putting the nearest glass instruments clatter. Tonks' eyes widened in awe; this bat really knew his hoodoo.

Nonetheless, the jinx soon lost its effect as though he had tried performing Avada Kedavra with a fake wand that would turn into a mewling Pikachu plushie halfway during the incantation. Quite nothing happened: the yellow lightning only hurtled over the sofa and through the gap with a sloppy _flrrt_, illuminating momentarily a portion of a coved corridor, before the blackness guttled it. The dungeon returned to its quietude. Snape looked like a bucket of sour milk again; he had probably made himself a total dingdong.

"Hrmh. Perhaps something lighter..." he muttered. Not that the spell had been a bogus, it merely was meant for poking something that Dark Arkmages created on afternoon strolls, not any pathetic N.E.W.T. -level balderdash.

This time, Tonks' brain-computer had received a faster processor. Frowning, she stared at the lightly rippling ether. "Wait a moment... I think I remember this from somewhere... could it be just---" she removed her other sandal, and tossed it onto the opening's threshold, so that it lay fifty-fifty inside the field. The footwear did not mutate into a carnivorous cactus, nor did anything more intriguing than just lounged there on the flagstones.

"I don't think it's dangerous. I'd say it's a shielding spell, but maybe not for blocking intruders... moreover 'weather-type' effects... I mean, it looks awfully like the umbrella charm some people use when flying in the rain. Never really got the knack of it, but--"

"You... are probably quite right." Severus abandoned the sulking, inquisitiveness taking over him. Apparently there was no point to wallow in self-accusations because of the goof-up, especially after her next, rather admiring, comment.

"Though, you got to teach me that trick. Never seen magic like that done in our Auror training. Might come in handy; we're bound to face dodgy things and places sooner or later if the war goes on..."

*******

A few seconds later Snape and Tonks had swept through the mystical mist, and had not begun sprouting antlers out of their nostrils. The girl had been almost one hundred percent correct with the assumption; the door had indeed been shielded with a dehumidification charm of some sort, the reason remaining yet unknown. The air beyond was much warmer and drier than in the batcave, but also so stale that they burst into a melodic cough duo when entering. After getting used to the stuffy pong, and conjuring in some light to guide the way, they decided to head onwards. As his spell had momentarily illuminated, the place indeed was an archway, perhaps a foot wider from inside than the gap. But still so narrow that the stiff, starched shoulder extensions of Snape's cloak hardly avoided trailing the wallstones.

_Clonk, clonk, clonk, _their steps echoed sepulchrally in the otherwise deep stillness. Judging by the sea of dust on the floor, nobody had used this passage in centuries. Slightly meandering, it was longer than they would have expected. Or then the darkness cloaked the meters before simply so intensely that the distances became unclear. The explorers gave sidelong glances at the bleak, dull mures, which were cut so craggily in places that almost one could think the builder had been the Giant Squid with a sledgehammer. And still, evidently, this alley had once been in frequent usage. The couple promenaded past at least two shallow alcoves that looked like doors that had been bricked in, their purpose being just as shady. Excluding the dust, the route was oddly clean, totally lacking cobwebs and mummified critters, which remained as another detail to wonder. Usually such itty bitty elements were the standardized decorations of forgotten holes like this.

"Any idea what this could be?" she scrutinized the cheerlessness.

"The same I would inquire... I cannot tell whether this belongs to the original castle construction or if it is a newer addition... Then again, it might well be a part of the structures Salazar Slytherin created... Well, the Chamber of Secrets, for instance, is no longer a vague myth after a bunch of nosing teen celebrities went and found it..." Towards the last sentence, his tone turned dry, radiating the sardonic dislike towards Potter and his marvel sidekicks. But Tonks was so fascinated about the ancient aisle that she quite missed the remark.

"This... um, where could we exactly be? Just wondering... the way seems to be going a bit downwards."

"Somewhere beneath the lake... would explain the dehydration charms, if someone wishes to protect something from dampness. Perhaps we shall find ou--" All abruptly, his floor-dragging robes ceased their sweep. A robust door had emerged from the blackness, its outline looming dimly in the flickering wandlight. The final destination had obviously been reached, since the corridor ended there.

"It's ajar", Nymphadora prompted. "Think we should--?"

Giving a sharp gesture with a few long yellow fingers, Snape wordlessly warned not to rush onwards like a headless chicken. There was no assurance of any kind about the place's safety, even though the archway so far had been as dangerous as a snoozing Flobberworm. Nonetheless, the quietude had been broken already. And as the jolly old Alohomora was not a mute option either, Snape grabbed the large iron ring that served as the handle, and pulled hard. Dust and loose mortar pieces pattered down, as the hefty wooden door unwound itself, moving slowly and creakily on its archaic hinges.         

Quite a different kind of view plunged forth, as Tonks' Lumos spell hit the tardily widening doorgap. Beyond was a small, rather low-ceilinged chamber, with supercharged bookshelves meandering along the walls, as though it had been a minuscule library, or someone's study. Nymphadora could have sworn that every inch of the shelves were loaded with scrolls, manuscripts, and leather-bound books so massive, that if she had attempted lifting one of them, it probably would have slipped immediately from her fingers and crushed her toes. Her gaze, which had been beguiled to amaze the overflow of literature, finally met the room's middle. There stood a rickety table, alike strewn with scripts and parchments, these spread wide open...

Suddenly she gasped, convulsively grasping her wand more firmly and pointing it directly forwards. And so had Snape's clawed hand once more tightened around her upper arm. He had only just emerged from behind the door, but ostensibly had caught the peculiar view just a tad earlier than she.

There was somebody already in the cabinet, sitting on a high stool at the table, back against the astounded incomers.

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...to be continued... Comments?


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Thanks for the new reviews! ^_^ And thanks to MajinSakuko for correcting the German sentence. Ach, my German's getting rusty. Been a while since I've used it. Eh, on with the story...

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"Who are you? Show yourself!" Snape snapped, an angry wand prodding towards the chamber's center.

No answer. The figure just roosted on the stool without a stir, almost unnaturally immovable. In addition, the whole vista swam in enigmas. Whoever sat there, why had he or she previously stayed in complete darkness, for the sole source of light had only just entered? What the incomers could see over the chair's backrest, were a few tufts of yellowish, filthy, matted hair standing on end and a ragged, fraying cloak dangling over the arm supports. From behind, the person definitely did not look the slightest like any of the present-time Hogwarts professors, nor bore resemblance to anyone the couple might recognize.

Severus' eyes narrowed. For him, this was a serious matter of intrusion. After all, he was the High Supreme Commander of the Slytherin House and puppeteered these quarters according to his own mighty Bat Order. Even though occasionally a certain bumblebee came humming down to remind him that he could not snatch a thousand points from Gryffindor just because the color of Potter's socks had been ugly in his opinion. Nonetheless, this was a whole different case: an illicit, and conceivably dangerous stranger was lurking in premises that were not, in the first place, even supposed to exist.

"Answer me! I, Professor Severus Snape, Master of this school, command you to yield th--"

But here, Tonks had taken initiative to bring in some action and freed herself from his tweezer-like hold. Striding forwards, wand out, she approached the chair. Still no reaction. Was the bloke asleep? Or just as deaf as a moldy beetroot? The table came into a better view with every gait: every single item on it seemed covered with thick, gray dust, even the burnt-out candle ends. As though they had not been fingered in eons...

"Oy, can you hear us?" she inquired, placing a hand on the chair's backrest in order to attempt turning it about. Surprisingly lightly, the rickety old piece of furniture swayed under her yank.

What was sitting in it, lost its weak equilibrium and fell against her with a thud, its stiff limbs getting tangled to her robes.

A shrill scream escaped gurgling from her throat. Inches from her visage, the countenance of a wizened mummy was grimacing at her. Its eyes, now only hollow black sockets, had dried off innumerable years ago. The once lively, ruddy skin had turned brown, crinkled and parchment-like, and crumpled in places so that the graying scull underneath was partly visible, especially at the place of its lopsided gap of a mouth showing several missing teeth. This withered monstrosity had apparently once been a short middle-aged man, and judging by the formerly lustrously embroidered robes -now tattered and bleached-, an individual of certain kind of authority.

A wannabe-toughie Miss Independent or not, the corpse made Tonks go into utter hysterics. For Bill Weasley it was perhaps just another yawningly boring day to meet three-headed mutant skeletons in the bowels of the Egyptian pyramids. But not for this urban lassie, whose experiences on that field were limited to the ketchup-stain plastic puppets seen in cheap Muggle movies. Horrified gaze fixed into the dead blank stare, shivers abruptly rocking her slender form, she endeavored shaking the disgust off. But its chapped arms, which had stiffened into crooked hook-like protrusions as they had lain perhaps centuries on the stool's armrests, became more and more snarled together with her robes, drawing her into a grotesque embrace. As though the deceased had wanted to drain Nymphadora's soft youth, and transform her into something alike, decaying and blemished.

Nevertheless, a jet of red sparks zoomed through the air, hitting the carcass and sending it flying across the cabinet. The dead man crashed against the bookshelf, dust and rolls of parchment showering down upon it. There it remained, immovable, grimacing toothily at its attacker with that twisted aperture of a mouth. Scowling, Snape pocketed his wand and swept to the Auror. No mutinous mummy was to bully his fair maiden, or they would suffer his vehement wrath. Shocked, she was furthermore quivering from head to toe, as though she had been trapped on Antarctica, wearing only a lei. 

This time the girl voluntarily sought her way into the shelter of his voluminous cape, and nuzzled herself against his side. Her manically pounding heart gradually stopped hammering against her ribs, yet the shivers did not wear off that fast. Though Severus' palm was fondling her back, his gaunt face remained stern, the words plopping out in petulant tones. 

"I am not giving out warnings gratuitously, child. When I state there may be unidentified threats awaiting, my proclamations ought to be taken seriously. Now, regarding the present situation, nothing too grave fortunately occurred. About which I am thankful since I do not wish to see you ending up again at St. Mungo's."

"R-right... Constant vigilance. Blimey..." When finally calm again, Tonks hated to admit that she had just so uber-cornily become the stereotypical frail damsel in distress. Only the pink frilly princess dress and the singing animal friends were missing, the dragon being replaced by this extra-senile dust-scull. Now that it sprawled in the corner as a crumpled heap, it did not look like even fifty percent as scary, moreover like some surplus stocks of Disneyland's Haunted Mansion. And still she was cowering under the arm of the 'valiant' mummyslayer. The Girl Power needed to be acquired back and swiftly.

Grinning uneasily, she gave an aflutter blurt, trying to direct the conversation away from the embarrassing incident. "Right, yeah-- Reckon this bloke is responsible of the secret door? Or at least he seems to have been the last one that, uh-- used this room." 

"Indeed, it would seem so..." The curious glint was back in Snape's pupils. "I wonder..." He let go of his lambkin, and soared to examine the table. Undoubtedly, when the chamber's resident had been still alive, he had been in the middle of deep studies. Under the lake of dust, a fraying quill rested on a ragged parchment, blotches of ink partly smearing the incomplete sentence under it. A heap of leather-bound books cluttered the rest of the desk, a myriad of bookmarks peeking out from between the partly loose sheets. One of these brick-thick volumes was open at the chair: the male had clearly been taking notes. So, why had he become the eternal prisoner of his study, why had the chair been transformed into his tomb-throne? All was very unclear. Perhaps a heart-attack or a fatal stroke had dammed the rivulet of life, and the victim had plopped dead without even having time to shriek for help. Or something relevant. Yet, why had nobody come to remove the body from this shady booklair? 

Only one conclusion could be drawn: he alone had possessed the savvy of this hole's existence. Thence, obviously nobody had even guessed to search for him over here. Doubtlessly the dehumidification charm had hindered the rotting process and mummified the remains, just like it had secured the scripts from mold and damp.

Severus scrutinized the aforementioned open book down his violently curving honker, turning over the dust-exhaling pages to reach the beginning.

"I wonder, whether... ah, here ought to be something..." He had reached the few leaves just after the heavy, buckled leather cover. Still a few centuries ago, when books were expensive and rare, their owners carefully claimed their possessions, commonly marking down even the precise date of when the volume had been added to collection. Snape's long thin finger slid over several inscriptions scribbled in differently colored inks: this item had plainly belonged to numerous individuals. In place of the very last line, his overgrown fingernail ceased its journey, his lips mumbling,

"_Herre__ Brokk Hrafn Spøkelse, A.D. 1682_."   

The date could only give out suggestions, since it implicitly referred to the year of purchase or analogous acquisition. Yet, the name seemed to switch on the professor's endocranial steam engine. Snape's memory definitely was no second-handed sieve: what he heard or studied once, became the undeviating subtenant of his mind.

"Curious... if I recall right, I daresay we have just come across one of Professor Binns' predecessors..."

"Eh...?" She raised a bamboozled brow.

"Ah, I see. The name has no meaning for you, has it?" As Tonks shook her head, he croaked on, "It has been years, but there was this obscure rumor I once heard when having some idle conversations in the staff room... I do not usually interest myself in such trivial twittering nonsense, like Professors Pomfrey and Sprout having a foolish fit of giggles about Miss Wizarding World 1993's ex-boyfriend's love life... Nevertheless, this was slightly different. I ought to say it was Professor Flitwick who discoursed about the near history of the Hogwarts staff, and at some point, the story dived deeper. Turned out that the current History of Magic post had been administered by a series of substitute teachers in the 1700's... though, I must hereby correct that the subject presently carrying the name _History of Magic_ had not yet been fully established those days... It merely consisted of introductory stories about the deeds of some famous witches and wizards: Merlin, the founders of Hogwarts, and so on and so forth."

"Um, what about the substitutes?" Nymphadora barged in. Nitpicky detail-comb as he was, he was prone to start rambling about some thoroughly out-of-topic particular if it was poorly defined in his opinion.

"Indeed... Well, Professor Flitwick mentioned that in the early 1700's, a man called something like 'Broke Ravine' -Professor Flitwick had forgotten the surname, and undoubtedly spelt the rest of it rather wrong, as we seem to be dealing with a Scandinavian name here- taught the elementary version of History of Magic. And then, one day, he suddenly disappeared, never returning to his teaching post. You see, these dungeons have not always been devoted to the delicate arts of potionmaking. This vanished one lived in the very same premises as I do nowadays. After the uncanny disappearance, searches of course were made, but in vain. Thus, as months and months went past, a new teacher was needed to fill the void caused by his nonexistent presence. It is told that nobody quite missed this 'Brokk'; ill-natured and rather untalented as a teacher as he apparently was, with no records of living family..." his lip curled half-sneeringly, as he en passant proclaimed the superiority of his own skills, "Shady fellow... I daresay the rest of the staff cared just as much about his personal life as if he had been a rotten Horklump... So, the case was tossed aside and forgotten, and permanent educators were sought after to apply for the post already in the mid-1700's."

"Heh, and I always thought Mr. Binns had been here since the Goblin rebellions. Honestly, don't remember hearing anything about this whole dodgy substitute stuff. And believe me, I've actually READ _Hogwarts, A History_." Tonks had also stepped at the desk and was semi-interested glancing over the Latin titles of some of the books. But most of the hand-drawn letters in the rubrics were so worn-out, that it was rather hard to figure out on a brief peer what these were all about. She picked up a random volume, one of the thinner ones that did not weigh a round twenty pounds, and mimicking the batcaped mage master, began leafing through it. The dust puffs oozing from between the pages made her eyes prickle, but she wanted to do something else than just stagnate beside the mummy and appear like a featherbrained princess that was only suited to bat lashes and admire her savior.

"No, ancient as he may seem, his teaching work belongs solely to the present century... And I doubt _Hogwarts, A History_ would conceal such frivolous information as this. It is merely an abridged collection of the most important events, even though it claims to be so very accurate...  mayhap a footnote somewhere..." Severus' drawl had turned indifferent, and he was again tracing his lower lip with a bony index, as he so often did when pondering something. Snape's gaze was wandering along the shelves: his inner bookworm was ostensibly jumping up and down with ecstasy. And soon, he brushed closer to a cluster of volumes whose titles had not yet been gnawed illegible by the ravenous time.

"Appears that the Dark Arts have been our dear mummy's little hobby... Small, but impressive library, I must say. I do not astonish why an individual would want to keep this hidden..."

A short quietude descended upon the archaic study. Nymphadora was still crouching over the one and the same book, admiring the complex talent with which it had been constructed. The leaves, decorated with itty bitty drawings so complicated that its illustrator had probably possessed microscopes in the place of his eyes, were quite brittle, so that they had to be carefully turned over, one by one. She had always liked looking at such medieval jewels of art, where every line and mark had been created by a skilful hand, and not by any mass-production printing machine. Of course, the best in these, compared to the same-era Muggle works, was that the pictures did not squat boringly still, but were ablaze with action. In one corner, a horde of minuscule grubs was teeming along a large letter Z. An emerald green serpent was squirming and chasing its tail around the page number DCLXVI. Fascinated, she went on. The Potions Master was rustling something behind her. One page more, two more...

"Merlin's macaroni...!" she suddenly interjected, remaining to goggle at a flourished illustration beneath her pointy nose. A bearded man wearing a bearskin cloak and a horned helmet was lifting up a round object, which was partly covered in carvings. It was not the male's buff anatomy that had caught her attention; the drawing was rather disproportioned and made the pal look more like a bald gorilla than a droolworthy adonis. No, it was the item he kept in his hands...

She yanked Severus' cloak corner, pointing at the picture. Brow abruptly furrowed, he bent down rapidly, resembling a strutting crow that had spotted an especially juicy worm wriggling on the ground, the massive hookbeak darting towards the page as though it was going to pierce it. Half a minute, in utter stillness, he leafed the frail sheets of parchment, observing the minuscule Latin writing that swarmed in-between the images.

"I think we ought to consult the Headmaster", he finally mused, an austere cling in his voice.

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TBC. Comments?


End file.
